


The Darkness

by FluffyBeaumont



Category: Y Gwyll | Hinterland
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, May/December Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:14:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28927887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FluffyBeaumont/pseuds/FluffyBeaumont
Summary: Brian Prosser is a complicated man, a man who has made many hard choices. The best choice he ever made was hiring Tom Mathias.
Relationships: Brian Prosser/Tom Mathias
Kudos: 1





	The Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't sure what Prosser's wife's name was, so I called her BethAnn.

He pulled into the parking lot and stopped, pausing for a moment before putting the car into park. Maybe he didn't really need to even be here, but then again...

Then again.

He shook his head, turned the car off, and got out. There was whiskey at home; there was no real need to go inside, but he had to get out of the house if only for a moment. BethAnn was visiting her sister - this was what he told himself - and he was alone in the house. He'd buy something potent, something strong, that would help him sleep, he'd --

There were three cashiers waiting at three check stands, and hardly anyone else in the shop. He found the Jameson's he wanted and took it up to pay for it, made idle conversation with the young woman who took his money, counting it carefully and giving him a printed receipt. If she recognised him, she didn't see fit to mention it. He took the Jameson's and got back into his car, drove home in the concentrated silence that is almost always the province of the truly alone.

There was no one waiting when he put his key in the door, when he went inside -- went into the house that now felt empty and foreign, no longer his own. He ought to hang up his coat but there was no one there to reproach him for it, so he slung it over the newel post and left it where it was, not caring if the damned thing fell down or not. What did it matter, if a scrap of cloth slid to the floor and stayed there? It had nothing to do with anything. There was nothing here for him, not anymore. BethAnn was gone; she wasn't coming back.

He padded wearily up the stairs and shed his correct workday clothes, slipping into a pair of flannel lounging pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt. He gazed at himself in the bedroom mirror, wondering when he had become this sad-eyed man who'd left all hope behind him? He would laugh if he had the energy. It was funny. Almost.

He went back downstairs, located the bottle of Jameson's and a glass, poured a healthy slug, and downed it all at once. The Irish whiskey burned a warm trail all the way to his stomach and he relished it, that tiny burn of aliveness, that miniscule point of heat. He was just about to pour another when there came a peremptory rap on the door, followed by the long trill of the doorbell, as if someone was leaning on it. "Yes, all right, I'm coming."

Tom Mathias was there, propped against the door, shivering and weak-kneed, and bleeding from a serious head wound. "Tom."

"Sir..." He wavered on his feet, more seriously hurt than anyone realised. "Could I...come in?" And before Prosser could answer, he pitched forward and would have fallen except Prosser caught him in his arms, held onto him.

"Good God, Tom!" He held Mathias, the younger man's body sagging in his grasp, and it was all he could do to get him inside the house and sit him on the sofa. "What the hell happened?" He was speaking Welsh, his English entirely forgotten, but it didn't matter, because Tom understood him; Tom was nodding, holding onto him, arms around Prosser's neck and it had been a long time since anyone had put their hands on Brian Prosser, holding tight to him like Tom was doing now. "What happened?"

"They jumped me, sir...three or four of them...I'm not entirely sure."

"I'm going to get something for your wounds," Prosser told him. "Just...stay there." He went into the bathroom, the smaller one on the lower floor. The big bathroom, the one upstairs, was too far away; he wouldn't go there now. Tom Mathias needed him and he would offer help and solace, he would do whatever he could for Tom, because Tom was...Tom was a good man. And this good man needed him. He gathered clean washcloths, and warm water, and ointment, and when he came back into the room Tom was sound asleep in the big armchair where Brian had put him, his head lolling to the side. Looking at him, Prosser was suffused with a violent tenderness, and something very close to affection, an emotion he had long harboured but would never admit, where Tom Mathias was concerned. Mathias was so... _angry_ , and anger was something Prosser understood, something he recognised. He laid the warm cloth against the wound in Mathias's forehead, dabbing at it gently. Mathias woke with a start.

"Sir?" Mathias gazed at him blearily, fading in and out of consciousness. Maybe this was the wrong thing to do. Maybe he ought to go to hospital, be seen by someone who knew what they were doing. He winced as the warm washcloth touched the wound in his forehead. "Ouch," he moaned quietly. "That hurts."

"I'm sorry." Prosser reached out with his other hand, cupping Mathias's cheek. This entire situation was surreal, bizarre, so unlike their usual interactions that he had no framework for it, no useful name to call it. "I would never hurt you, Tom."

"Your wife," Mathias said, as Prosser sponged the blood out of the cut, "is she away, visiting family?"

"She left me," Prosser said quietly. "And I don't blame her." He dried the wound with a slip of sterile gauze, squeezed antiseptic ointment onto a clean cotton pad and held it there. "I haven't been a proper husband to her, not for a very long time." It amazed him, this unfamiliar honesty, the way in which he disclosed all his deepest secrets to Mathias. "Does that shock you, Tom?"

"I'm in no position to judge anyone," Mathias said. He tilted his face, seeking again the caress of Prosser's hand. "And I would never judge you, sir." He blinked. "Brian."

"Are you tired?" Prosser asked. It seemed to him a reasonable question.

"Exhausted," Mathias replied.

"Come on, then." Prosser stood, extending a hand to him. Mathias caught hold of it, used it to lever himself into a standing position, stumbling only a little, swaying on his feet. If Prosser had wanted to, he could have taken a step forward and drawn Mathias into his arms but he wouldn't presume. He would let Mathias come to him of his own accord. "You should rest. The guest bedroom is ready."

He helped Mathias up the stairs but at the landing they both stopped, Mathias searching his gaze for something...what? "Do you want me to sleep in the guest room?" Mathias asked. "Or...?"

Something sparked deep down in the base of Prosser's belly, something warm and powerful that caught across his throat and rendered him absolutely speechless for a moment. "I...well...if...it's cold tonight, and if you wanted to--"

"I do." Mathias moved close to him, caught hold of Prosser's forearms and held on, dark eyes boring into him, possessing him. "I really do."

"Tom, I would never dream of--"

"Brian." He surged forward, and his arms were around Brian Prosser's neck, and he was in the older man's embrace, his mouth scarcely an inch away -- warm, and open. When their lips met, something exploded deep in Prosser's chest and he was kissing Mathias back for all he was worth.

"I'm too old for you," he murmured when Mathias pulled away. "Tom, I'm --"

"Shhhh." Mathias tugged at his hands, pulling him towards the bed, stripping him effortlessly and laying him down, and then he was naked and Mathias was above him. "Let me--" 

"Oh God, yes." He gave himself up to it, the caress of Tom's mouth and hands, the heat of him, the weight of Tom on top of him, driving him into the sheets, spreading him wide open. Again and again, his body rose and fell, rose and fell, and Mathias was on him and around him, and inside of him, piercing his body like a warm and welcome violence and he was coming hard, harder than he'd ever come in his life, the powerful orgasm rippling up and down his spine, obliteraing him.

He came to himself in darkness, with Tom Mathias laid across his chest, his cheek against Prosser's shoulder, their arms around each other. There was no need to speak. He turned his face and caught Tom's mouth, kissing him as if he meant every syllable of the caress and he did, he absolutely did. "It's alright, isn't it?" he asked. "Tom?"

"Yes." Tom's arm tightened around his waist, as Tom slid a his leg between Prosser's thighs. "Of course it is." He kissed Prosser tenderly, and they were there again, falling into a warm well of desire that went out and out, into eternity.

"Tell me about the darkness," Tom murmured, much later, as they lay quiescent in each other's arms.

"The darkness," Prosser whispered. "That's all I know, Tom. That's all I know."


End file.
